Living Under a Sociopath(and His Doctor)
by fortheloveoffandom
Summary: After a tragic accident that left Elia Hudson without any family but her grandmother, she moves into the lower flat of 221B Baker Street where she discovers an entirely different life awaiting her. Her eye for observation is useful in solving cases with the Famous Sherlock Holmes, and also to notice something going on between him and his flatmate, John Watson. Rated M (for later;)
1. Chapter 1

I've never been superstitious, religious, or anything other than an observer of the natural world around me. I never really believed in the saying "Everything happens for a reason." That is, until this past year.

It was three days before my seventeenth birthday that my house had caught fire, taking nearly all my belongings, my cat Marley, and both parents down with it. We'd set out all the decorations for my party, consisting of cheap plastic tablecloths and streamers. The kind of quality product you could only get from Nowheresville, Indiana. But I'd take shitty birthday decorations over a dead family any day. Any sane person would.

It was soon after this accident that I discovered the truly insane actually exist.

A couple days later, maybe three(it's quite difficult to remember, having been dragged from place to place constantly), it was finally determined that I was to be shipped off to London, England, to live with my grandmother. She was the closest relative I had, and I hadn't seen her in at least three years.

So I did the only thing left I could do; I scrimmaged through the last semi-salvageable items in my house to take with me what I could. Air fares and luggage were expensive enough, so I had to limit the items I took with me to one large suitcase. Then, I said my goodbyes to all my friends who were supposed to have attended my birthday party that day, and to my boyfriend, Vincent, who'd agreed to dating long-distance. As if I hadn't lost enough already, I felt like I was losing the boy I loved.

When I arrived, Gran was at the airport, ready to greet me with a giant embrace. She looked the same from what I remembered; a pleasant face(though struck with grief now from the loss of her son and daughter-in-law) and a gentle tone of voice. I tried my best to smile and act as if I was glad to see her, but under the circumstances, how could I?

I'd never been out of the country, so the mere drive from the airport to her place was quite a culture shock. Everything just seemed so... British, like it was only like this in the movies. And she kept talking about her "flat," which took me half the drive to realize was her apartment. She also spoke about two men who rented a flat above us from her, which I found odd. She didn't say too much about them, just that I should prepare myself. Whatever that means.

"Your room is just past the kitchen, on the left. It was the guest bedroom, so there's already a bed and clean sheets. I expect you're tired from the plane ride, so you just rest. I'll make you a nice hot cuppa," Gran said.

_What the hell is a cuppa?_ I thought, silently exiting the room.

It turns out that a cuppa means a cup of tea, I learned when Gran brought it in for me. I thanked her politely and took a sip, not actually sure what it tasted like. Let me warn you: it's repulsive. I blamed my scrunched up face on it being hot, but I didn't know how long I would be able to hide my distaste of the stuff.

It was after gran had tried to make me eat dinner that I first heard them. The door outside of Gran's flat opened and closed with a hasty thud, followed by the voices of two men shouting at each other. I immediately hoped I wouldn't be stuck with the neighbors who weren't always fighting and yelling at each other.

Gran finally left me alone that night after I told her I had a lot of unpacking to do. I didn't really get much done, though. Instead, I laid down under the scratchy sheets and checked my messages online, then quickly got off after seeing they were all the same

"I'm so sorry for your loss" sympathy messages. I just couldn't deal with that at the moment.

The sun went down, along with the noise on the street, which brought another strange set of noises into my room. I thought at first the clanking was just the air conditioning, as it seemed to be coming from the vent above my bed, but faint voices soon followed.

"You can't just tell the head of Scotland Yard to sod off, Sherlock. Do you realize your actions could have gotten us both arrested?" said one of the men.

A much deeper voice followed, in a clearly unconcerned tone. "Stop being so paranoid about getting arrested, John. It only happened once."

"Yes," replied the man I assumed to be John. "It was yesterday. Because of you."

After hearing this undeniably insane conversation, I couldn't help but investigate more. I quietly rolled out of my bed and snuck out of my bedroom, making sure Gran was asleep before I went out. I slid through the dark rooms to the door leading out of the flat, which was louder than I'd have liked it to be. There was no stirring from Gran. I went up the stairs to the door leading to the other flat in the building.

"John, take a look at this body. How long would you say she's been dead?" said Sherlock.

_What? Who's body was in there?_

"According to the picture, I'd say six hours at least."

_Oh thank God._

"She couldn't have been killed by the clerk then, because she'd left an hour before. Then who did it?" Sherlock again. "John..."

A suspicious silence came from the flat and I realized too late that I'd been discovered. The door swung open before I had a chance to move.

A tall, thin man who looked to be in his early thirties stood above me, his piercing eyes that matched the color of the British sky staring at me with a matching smile of slight irritation. "Can I help you?" he asked. I studied the man, who had high, protruding cheek bones and dark, curled hair.

A man stood a few yards behind him, holding a pistol. He was considerably shorter than the man who stood before me and appeared a few years older than him. He had short, blonde hair and a cute nose that sloped outward. Despite having a pistol in his hand, he seemed to have a very calm disposition.

Though the two were at least a decade older than me, there was no denying their attractiveness.

"The clerk didn't kill her," I said quickly. "She was trying to kill him."

The two shared a glance at each other. I knew this because of the information I'd heard, combined with the photos scattered about the room. From the photos, I saw that there was a contraption constructed to trap and kill its victim with multiple ropes and a machine gun. However, the girl made a mistake when setting it up, which caused her foot to get caught in the rope instead of her victim. It was obvious.

I explained all of this to him.

"Brilliant," said the short one. From him voice, I assumed he was John.

Sherlock said nothing, though. He just studied the photographs more carefully. "I'll inform Lestrade. John, put a kettle on. I would like to converse with Miss Hudson."

"Miss Hudson?" John asked, glancing at me.

"My name is Elia," I said. "Elia Hudson."

And this is the story of how I came to live under a high-functioning sociopath and his doctor.


	2. Chapter 2

Both men seemed fascinated by the fact that I was able to solve the case in less than a minute of my appearance, though John more.

"Does he always do that?" I asked, after about the fifth time John had exclaimed, "Brilliant!"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, but just ignore it."

John grumbled about it from the kitchen.

"So who are you?" I asked. "Are you two police officers?"

That aroused a laugh from John, while Sherlock simply replied, "No. I am a consulting detective. John is a doctor."

"A consulting detective? Is that another British thing I haven't heard about?"

Another laugh came from the kitchen. "No, he made it up. Also, if you're American, why are you here in London?"

Sherlock nearly jumped out of his seat, his head snapped backward so fast. "John!" he shouted.

The poor man actually did jump, spilling the water from the kettle over the tray. His expression was utterly guilty, like a puppy who'd done wrong. I felt sorry for him, mostly because I didn't understand why Sherlock was mad. Neither of them would have known the reason.

"That was incredibly rude," Sherlock continue. "Apologize now."

"I'm, er, sorry," he mumbled, offering me tea. What was with these Brits and their tea?

I shook my head. "How do you know?" I asked Sherlock.

John sat down with a 'cuppa' and said, "Sorry, know what?"

"You moved all the way from America, judging by the size of your luggage, to live with your grandmother and last remaining relative. You're currently wearing your father's university sweatshirt because it's clearly too big for you and has a faint smell of a man's cologne. You share the same look of grief that Mrs. Hudson has had for the past three days, though she won't say what's wrong. The look that could only be caused by the death of a loved one, being her only son since you're still alive."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair with a smug grin on his face, despite the fact that he'd been talking about my dead parents.

My facial expression didn't change, though John looked horrified. He tried apologizing again. "I'm so sorry for-"

"For my loss," I finished. "Everybody is."

I didn't mean to be rude to this man who clearly meant well, but I couldn't take all this sympathy from people who didn't even know me or my parents.

"You must be tired," Sherlock continued after a tense minute of silence. "I don't sleep much."

He smiled. "Well, I think you'll fit in quite well here."

The next few days were uncomfortably quiet. I spent ninety percent of the time in my room, silently letting tears roll down my cheeks and trying to sleep as much as possible. The only times I did emerge was when I was forced to eat or use the restroom.

It was a week later that I finally left at my own will. I awoke at six, hearing a clattering in the kitchen, which turned out to be Gran making more tea. She offered to make me breakfast, but I refused. My appetite had seemed to vanish in these past few days, so I offered to go get some groceries from a store a few blocks away. To be honest, I just wanted to get away from everything.

I was trying to find organic eggs in the store when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and looked through the text messages.

"Need cinnamon. -SH"

The number wasn't saved in my phone, so I replied, "Who is this?" "Sherlock. I live upstairs. Hurry."

I wasn't sure how this man got my number or why he wanted cinnamon, but I got it for him anyways. At the checkout counter, I saw a sign that said "Must be 16 years of age to purchase tobacco products," so I pulled out my ID and bought a pack of cigarettes. God knows I needed them.

I reached 221B and headed straight upstairs. No one answered when I knocked, so I let myself into the unlocked apartment. Flat. I followed the noise coming from the kitchen, eventually stumbling upon Sherlock focused completely on a peetree dish. Instead of acknowledging me or welcoming me in, he held out his hand.

"Cinnamon," he said simply.

I handed it to him and watched as he poured about a teaspoon full into the dish. There was a slight bubbling caused by the combination of materials, which seemed to satisfy him.

"The victim was allergic to cinnamon," he stated, more to himself. "I bought a whole bottle of cinnamon for you to use a teaspoon?"

He replied without looking up. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson's dishes are extremely dull-tasting. Perhaps she'll actually put some flavor in it now."

Without another word, I turned around and walked out of the room. John was just coming in with a bag full of groceries and had clearly seen my irritated expression.

"Sherlock?" he asked.

I nodded. "How do you put up with him?"

"God knows." He looked at my with the same sympathetic expression as the previous day. "We're going to Angelo's for dinner tonight. Why don't you join us?"

I wanted to refuse. I wanted to lay in my new room and weep, avoiding all communication from the outside world. But I knew my parents wouldn't have wanted that, and this man clearly knew the feeling of loss and only wanted to help, so I agreed.

Angelo's was a very nice restaurant. I nearly refused to let them pay for my dinner, but discovered the truth about why Angelo's was their favorite restaurant. Apparently, Sherlock had helped to prove that the owner wasn't a vicious killer and he now owed him numerous favors, including free meals whenever he pleased.

It was nice, finally having my mind partially distracted enough so that I could eat and have a conversation, as strange as it was. Sherlock had insulted the waitress by "observing" that she was sleeping with the owner because of the brand of shoes she was wearing. I also learned that the two had been "flatmates" for over a year now. They were completely mad for each other and hadn't admitted it, even to themselves. But we'll get to that later.

I was nearly halfway through my meal when I noticed something had caught Sherlock's eye(other than John, of course). What had first appeared to be a date between a burly looking man and stunningly attractive woman was now clearly nothing of the sort. They both seemed tense, as though they were pointing a gun at each other. If I hadn't followed Sherlock's gaze over to them at that precise moment, I wouldn't have noticed the exchange of a small, black envelope, from the man to the woman.

My eyes flickered to Sherlock, but he was still watching the faux couple. John was completely oblivious, of course. I watched as the scene unfolded before me. The couple arose quickly after the exchange happened, their meals barely touched. The man set some money on the table and the two left, still tense and keeping at least a half-foot in between them.

As soon as they were out of the building, Sherlock rose and said, "Let's go."

John looked up with a puzzled expression, but followed suit anyways. He must have gotten used to Sherlock's random outbursts and requests this past year that they'd been together. Or perhaps he enjoyed it.

I followed them outside. The couple was getting into two separate cars, speeding off two separate ways. Sherlock hailed down a cab and told the driver, "Follow that car," toward the woman. I must admit, as cliche as that line is, there's always been some deep desire inside me to say it myself. And having it said, the adrenaline pumping through me... it felt good.

"Is this what you do, then?" I asked. "You look at dead bodies during the day and chase people in taxis at night?"

The driver's eyes flickered up to the mirror, but I didn't care. "Essentially," replied John.

"Why are we chasing this woman? Just because she looks suspicious?"

Sherlock stepped in and replied, "There's a sort of terrorist organization under the lead of a man named Moriarty, who seems to be a fan of my work. The government caught word of an attack happening in Central London and that the coordinates had been leaked. If we can get those coordinates, we might be able to stop the attack."

The car eventually stopped at a massive house with columns framing the door. The woman stepped out and looked around, not seeing that our taxi was slowing just down the street, and went inside. We waited a minute before making a move.

"You distract her in the front, John. I'll get in from the back and look for the envelope," Sherlock commanded.

"What will I do?" I asked.

Sherlock turned to me, his cat-like eyes glancing at John. "You hold the cab. Don't get out."

"There's no way in Hell I'm missing out on this."

"It's our responsibility to keep you safe," said John. "Mrs. Hudson has already lost her son, you're all she has left."

"Fine, let Sherlock do the dangerous breaking and entering. I'll help you with the distraction."

After a bit more persuasion, they finally agreed. Sherlock exited the taxi first, prowling around the house without a single noise. He blended into the night with his long coat and dark hair. Then, John and I left the vehicle with our plan in mind. I fell dramatically, John shouted for help, etc.

I kept my eyes closed, having "fainted," but I still had a good sense of what was going on around me. The woman came from the house and ran up to us. She was still in her high-heels from what I could hear.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice just a bit too fake to sound sincere.

"My niece. We were walking down the street and she just fell!" his voice was frantic. "What do we do? Should I call an ambulance?"

Two cold fingers touched my neck to take my pulse, causing me to flinch. I peeked out of my eye to see the woman staring at John like a deer looking into headlights before running inside.

"Wait!" called John, but it was too late. We'd been caught.

The sound of the woman shrieking came from the house, followed by a gunshot. And Sherlock didn't have a gun.

"Sherlock!" John cried, running toward the door. But Sherlock was already running out of it.

"Get back in the cab!" he shouted, passing us.

And that's pretty much how my first night as an assistant to a consulting detective went. The cab ride was tense, as John and I worried that someone might be following. The coordinates were in the black envelope after all.

But Moriarty was more clever than that. This was only a small part of his grand plan.


	3. Chapter 3

I'd like to tell you a love story... of sorts.

Once upon a time, there lived a man named John Watson; a brave soldier that fought for queen and country. But sometimes these brave soldiers get hurt and are sent back home. John happened to be one of them, and didn't have a home to go back to. So a friend introduced him to another man he could share rent and a flat with. This man was Sherlock Holmes.

This man John was introduced to was strange and dangerous. He could tell if you were happy by looking at your shoelaces. As for John, he could tell that the soldier missed the war. He knew that John craved the danger he was once in the center of and could not cope with "normal" life. John was unsure about this strange man, but took a chance anyways. Not everything was happily ever after with these two. Sherlock was messy, loud and rude. John was neat, quiet and cute. Despite their differences, the two found themselves attracted to each other. More, perhaps, than they meant to. But something kept them from admitting this to each other and themselves. Pride.

So John kept away, wandering and watching; imagining all that could happen if he told the truth. Would Sherlock be disgusted? Would he feel the same way? Surely not, for Sherlock Holmes does not feel. He keeps himself away from such unnecessary functions. But this time... this time Sherlock could not help himself. How could he ignore his human instinct to crave another, particularly John Watson? How could he not notice John's sculpted muscles, the way his nose crinkled adorably when he smiled? Sherlock was scared of these thoughts and feelings, and tried to hide them away. But every now and again, his eyes lingered and his heart fluttered for John.

So the two of them kept on in the same fashion they always had; solving crimes together and pretending they were nothing more than colleagues and friends. They never expected my arrival would change this.

A young maiden moved in below them, forced to live with her grandmother by tragedy. She was odd, like Sherlock, and quiet, like John. The two grew quite fond of her and she befriended them, spending a majority of her time helping solve cases and drinking horrendous-tasting tea. And during this time, she discovered the feelings between the two.

It was on a night nearing Christmas that the maiden was caught between a raging argument between Sherlock and John. It hurt her to see these two who cared so much about each other fight like enemies. So, the maiden did what any caring, considerate person would do. She got John's gun and shot at the wall until they shut up.

"What is wrong with you two?" she shouted.

"Sherlock ruined my antique-"

"I did not ruin it."

"It belonged to my grandmother!"

"Good. She's dead. I don't think she'll mind."

"Oi!" she shouted, shooting at the wall again.

"Sherlock, apologize. John is clearly upset and doesn't want to fight with you now. Or ever."

"Oh really? What else am I thinking then. Why don't you all tell me what I'm feeling for me?"

"You're afraid," she said. "You don't think you're good enough for Sherlock. He's clever and beautifully odd, and you think he deserves more than you. You're wrong."

There was a silence in the room that only she could break. She addressed Sherlock. "He lusts for you."

When she turned back to John, his face was flushed. "But that's okay... because he lusts for you too."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: This is where it starts to get "mature." Warning for implied rape/torture. There will be Johnlock drama to come soon;) Thank you for all the positive reviews!**

_Mor-I-art-I: to die is an art._

It'd been three months since I'd moved into 221B Baker Street. I'd adjusted to my new life well; as much as one can after losing both parents and befriending a sociopath. Gran had enrolled me in school, as much as I'd protested against it. I didn't really fit in that well. But I suppose I wasn't really making an effort to.

So, being the newfound loner that I was(okay, am), I spent most of my time smoking cigarettes, sleeping, and solving cases with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I knew they didn't need me, but I always seemed to get caught up in their cases somehow.

John and Sherlock's relationship stood at an impasse, something deep within them stopping the truth. Maybe they were afraid what a relationship would entail, or perhaps they were ashamed of their sexuality. John still pretended he was into women, of course.

What I tell you today, however, has little relevance to their relationship.

During those three months, I'd managed to acquire a fake ID. I looked older than my age and the drinking age here was only 18 so I thought, 'Hell, why not?' It seemed to be the thing to do here, go to pubs and clubs and get wasted on the weekend. I was usually too busy with a case, but I occasionally had to escape to something "normal."

There were a lot of people at Mahaffey's on this particular weekend. I, being my loner self, was sitting at the bar while everyone else was standing and drinking together. It didn't really matter, though. I wasn't in it for the socializing. That is, until someone sat beside me.

"Why are you letting your friends have all the fun?" he asked.

I looked over at him. He was attractive, to say the least. His short, scruffy hair matched the color of his dark eyes, but his smile was light and sweet. And his voice... damn.

After regaining myself, I replied, "They're not my friends."

He smiled, as if genuinely intrigued. "I apologize for mistaking you for one of those underage twits. What have you come all the way from America for anyways?"

"Traveling," I said. "I wanted to see Europe before I go off to college."

"How interesting. What's your name?" "Elia. And yourself?"

"Well, I'm delighted to meet you, Elia. I'm Jim. What do you say we get out of here?"

I awoke briefly to the sound of an enraged Sherlock shouting and slamming things against the wall. My head felt dizzy and I couldn't seem to get my eyes to focus, so I listened. I'd never seen Sherlock like this before. John's voice followed, begging him to calm down, telling him this wasn't his fault. What wasn't his fault? The door slammed and everything went black again.

Everything was a strange blur as I opened my eyes for the second time and lifted my head.

"Shhh. Don't get up too quickly. I gave you some prescription medicine for the pain, so you'll be out of it for a while."

Although my vision wasn't clear enough to see who this person was, I could tell by his voice that it was John. I laid back down, feeling dizzy all of a sudden.

"How-get-here-" I managed to get out.

"That doesn't matter right now, Elia. I'll need to change your bandages soon. Would you like something to eat?" I nodded. I didn't know how long I'd been out, but my raging hunger told me it had been a while.

John left to the kitchen. I tried opening my eyes again and found that everything was much more clear. I was laying on the couch in John and Sherlock's flat, wearing nothing but a warm blanket around me. My entire body was aching and throbbing, covered in purples abrasions. The horrendous memories of the night before began to flood into my mind, though in small bits.

"Sherlock?" I asked.

"He couldn't- he went out."

"That bad?"

He didn't reply. A few minutes later, I attempted sitting up again. John rushed to help me up, setting a plate of food down on the coffee table before he did. I tried my best to keep the blanket covering me, but if he'd bandaged me up, he surely had already seen everything.

The scene of what had happened here unfolded before my eyes. There was a box by the door; a box large enough to fit a small adult inside. Me. Around it laid an untied ribbon that had gone around the box and a small card that one would write their name on, as if delivering a Christmas present.

I stood up and walked toward it. John protested, saying my body wasn't ready for that, but I had to see what the card said. I picked it up and read the three-worded note.

_** Love,**_

_** Jim Moriarty **_

My hand flew to my mouth. Jim. No one told me his last name and I'd never asked. I never meant to get in that cab with him. I never meant for any of it to happen. My knees gave out, sending me crashing onto the floor.

"Elia," John said, lifting my head. "I need you to tell me what happened."

I shook my head.

"Elia, please. That's the only way we can help you."

"I didn't know... he seemed... so nice..." I said between sobs.

I was lifted off the floor as John said, "Come on."

He took me up to his room, where he laid me down on his bed. I should have been afraid, under normal circumstances, of a man clearly stronger than I carrying me up to his room after having experienced what I did, but I wasn't. John wasn't anything like Jim Moriarty.

"He raped me," I admitted as John peeled off my bandages. "My hands were... tied up. I thought he just wanted sex, but he started hitting me." I looked at the burn marks on my arms. "And then he started smoking a cigar and used me as his ash tray." "Did he drug you at all? You seemed very confused when we... found you." "No. He wanted me to feel everything."

And I did feel everything. I would never be able to forget the pain I went through that night. My back hurt the worst. He hit me with nearly everything he could lift. And then he straddled me as he etched something into my back with a knife. It wasn't until he had someone else come in and strike me with the back of a machine gun that I finally passed out.

The room stayed quiet as John replaced the rest of my bandages. Apparently, he'd already taken a blood and vaginal sample while I was unconscious, and stiched up my back.

"Would you like me to grab some clothes for you?" John asked.

I looked down at my swollen, beaten body. I'd nearly forgotten I wasn't wearing anything.

"Please," was all I could say.

While he went down to get clothing from my room, I staggered my way into his bathroom. I nearly gasped at how bad I truly looked. Despite going through all the pain I did, I didn't think it would have left this many marks. I turned around to find **SHERLOCK** cut into my skin. That would certainly scar.

Sherlock was quiet and calm when he arrived. His eyes seemed to avoid me as much as possible, despite the fact that most of my injuries were covered by a sweater and jeans. He spoke with John about going to the authorities and Moriarty, but again, talk of my injuries were avoided.

My grandmother, however, had been worried sick about my disappearance. I'd only been gone for the night and most of that day, but I guess that's how family is. I was able to lie to her and tell her I'd been mugged, and I made both John and Sherlock swear never to say anything to her about the truth.

Sherlock was intent on finding Moriarty. It was strange seeing him like this. I always knew he was capable of caring, but he seemed to be letting his cold-hearted mask slip. I don't think he had any time to be afraid of it either. Gran sent me to bed early with a cup of tea.

I laid in my bed, feeling more cold and alone than ever. I couldn't help but cry into my pillow as the silence allowed me to recall the disturbing vivid memories of the night before.

When Gran finally went to bed, I slipped out of my room and went upstairs, as I usually did. But this time, it was different.

I opened the upstairs door to find Sherlock vigorously typing on the computer. He didn't even glanced at me before saying, "John's in his room."

I worked my way around Sherlock's mess of papers, up to John's room. He was staring at the ceiling when I walked in, then his eyes quickly flashed to me.

"Can I, um, could I sleep here tonight?" I asked.

John scrambled to the left side of the bed, making room for me. "Of course."

I hesitated. "Is this my fault?"

"Elia..." His surprise was obvious. "Of course it isn't. Do you have any idea what Jim Moriarty is? What he's capable of? He's a psychopath. He calls himself a consulting criminal. You're not his first victim, nor his last, unfortunately. He's been after Sherlock for ages. He used you as a pawn in his game. Now come here. You need to sleep."

I climbed in bedside him, leaving room between us as to not make it awkward. But John pulled me into him and held onto me like I'd roll away and fall off a cliff. Maybe he was afraid of that; metaphorically, anyway. And maybe I was too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Gah! Sorry for the wait. The holidays were busy, followed by finals:P But that's all over now and I have an exciting idea coming up:) Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

I suppose I haven't spoken of school much, though I don't know what I would have said. I don't have any friends here, other than a couple of people that I let copy my homework in return for a brief, awkward conversation. It's not like I had a ton of friends back in the States(I was kind of a freak to those who didn't know me well), but at least I'd had some people my age to talk to.

The situation with Moriarty certainly didn't help. Everyone seemed to believe that the visible bruises and cuts were from being mugged, but it was very obvious that something wasn't right with me. I'd flinch at everything, especially if someone touched me. I spent most of my time buried in my homework, as to not let the events of that night rush into my head.

So, people kept away more than usual. And I kept more to myself, avoiding any sort of emotion or feeling that might come with a person actually caring. The only people I couldn't avoid that with, however, was John and Sherlock.

"But if she didn't play the harmonica, how did it get into her flat?"

"It was planted, John," I stated. "The killer was careful in placing it, leaving no prints and putting it where it would have obviously stand out. The man in the picture beside it, most likely her father, has prominent wrinkles around his mouth, suggesting that he was the one who played the harmonica. He's the link."

"Is he the killer then?" John asked.

I was about to reply, when Sherlock interrupted. "Of course not. He's been dead for years. She has her parents' wedding rings on the dresser."

I knew Sherlock was trying not to get irritated with my rapidly increasing deduction skills, but I spent so much time focusing on the cases that I couldn't help myself. I understood Sherlock much better now, how everyone thought he was a freak when he just stated the obvious before him. The way he threw himself into his work and seemed devoid of all emotions made me wonder what caused him to be this way in the first place.

There was nothing left in the room that I hadn't already caught, so I left the doctor and consulting detective to their work. Inspector Lestrade stood outside the flat, talking to another agent. The way his eyes flickered to me suggested that he intended on questioning me, likely about Sherlock, so I walked past him as quickly as I could.

"Elia!" he called as I was about to leave the building.

I grimaced and turned to him. "Yes?"

"How are you doing? Living in the same building with Sherlock and John, I mean."

"Fine..."

"Is Sherlock... behaving himself?" he asked.

"Could you possibly beat around the bush any more, Lestrade? I definitely have nothing better to do with my time," I snapped.

"I just mean... you never gave a statement about being jumped. You won't talk about it at all. I just didn't know if-"

I would have laughed if he wasn't accusing someone I cared about so much. "Sherlock is a good man."

"Good men make mistakes."

I glared at him, definitely not in the mood for his bullshit. "Just divorce your wife already. Your marriage won't improve if you keep cheating on her."

A couple of the agents seemed to have heard, leaving three very shocked people standing silently as I walked away. I knew I shouldn't have said what I did; I regretted it as soon as it came out. But after what _really_ happened, it felt like I'd lost all control of myself.

I had dinner with Gran, as usual, the conversation as minimal as it could get.

"Is the case coming along?" she'd ask.

"Yeah," I'd reply.

"How was school?"

"Fine, Gran."

And that was about it. I walked off to my room to change into my pajamas. The tight jacket I wore rubbed up against the healing cuts on my back, so I changed into my father's large t-shirt. The smell of his cologne faded more every time I wore it, but I felt that I needed the closeness at this difficult time.

Before I put the shirt on, however, I examined my back. The word SHERLOCK that had been etched in my back with a knife was healing well, but still clearly visible. I was certain that I'd always have that scar. I would always have to hide the shame that came with a stupid mistake that lead to one of the two worst nights of my life. I would never be able to wear a swimsuit, never wear a strapless dress to a dance. And perhaps the worst part that came out of that night: I would never be able to love a man.

It'd been two weeks since the incident, and I still had to sleep in the upstairs flat. Sometimes I'd drift off on the couch while watching Sherlock work, but often I'd have to go to John's room because I was too nervous to sleep alone. I could tell Sherlock wasn't exactly comfortable with the idea of someone else sleeping in the same bed as John, but it was still clear that Sherlock was the only person he wanted.

I questioned John about it one night when I laid next to him.

"Why haven't you two talked about it?" I asked.

He didn't seem to know the answer himself, but replied, "It's just not something men talk about to each other."

"But you want to be with him."

"Sherlock is..." He sighed. "Sherlock's complicated, but you already know that. He distances himself from everyone and goes days without saying a single word. I don't think he could allow himself to become that close to anyone. And I don't think I could handle it if he decided after we'd been together that it was best for us to be apart."

I nodded, understanding. John couldn't lose his best friend, and neither could Sherlock. I still wanted them to at least discuss it so they would know what was really going on between them, but I doubted it would ever happen. Those two were as stubborn as men could get, which meant that their love life would go nowhere until one gave in.

"How about you, Elia?" he asked. "Are the nightmares lessening?"

"They seem to be," I lied.

They were the same every night, always about Moriarty. He wasn't repeating what he'd done to me two weeks ago, but standing over me. Laughing. I tried to escape, but I couldn't move an inch. Then, the laughter became louder. And I would scream for help. And then the laughing would become so loud that it blocked out everything else and made me scream in my sleep.

So he knew I was lying.

I woke up before John, which was a strange occurrence. I pried myself out of the giant cuddling teddy bear that was John and left his room to see Sherlock standing before a wall that was completely covered in pictures, articles, and profiles. He seemed to be in his "mind palace," so I didn't bother him as I went to the kitchen to make tea. The stuff was growing on me.

After pouring a shit-ton of sugar and milk to make the tea drinkable, I cleared a chair in the kitchen and watched as Sherlock deduced at a threatening pace. It was almost disturbing to see him like this. He had so many thoughts in his mind, so many strings that tied onto dozens of other strings that he had to leave this world, in a way, just to tie them together into any sense.

I watched him like this for nearly twenty minutes, his eyes opening and shutting, his hands pulling mental images in front of him and wiping them away, his breathing becoming more shallow as he neared a conclusion. And finally, when it seemed as though he'd be stuck in this trance forever, his eyes opened as though he was seeing the world for the first time.

It was in that single moment of awakening that I realized the truth about Sherlock Holmes. I knew why he didn't sleep, except the few hours that his body needed to function properly. He was afraid to, just as I was. He was afraid of the nightmares.

"The killer was the doctor," he mumbled to himself.

My eyes flickered up to him after having had zoned out for a moment.

"John, Elia," he shouted toward John's room, "get your coats!"

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw me sipping my tea at the table.

"The doctor?" I asked.

"Of course," he said. "The doctor was performing a procedure on the father when he died. It was suspected that the anesthesia killed him, but the doctor was performing an illegal operation without his consent. The only person who figured out was the daughter, which became a problem for him."

"So he killed her to hide the truth," I added.

He smiled. "Exactly. Now get your coat, we have a murderer to arrest."

John shuffled out of his room a few minutes later, dressed and ready to go in his usual jumper and slacks. He must have been used to Sherlock calling for him to leave early in the morning, because he was still half-asleep. I waited at the door, just having slipped on a pair of jeans and coat over my t-shirt.

I kept out of eye contact with Lestrade as Sherlock explained the situation to him, after arriving at Scotland Yard. He nodded and left to notify the policemen working in the office who to arrest. He went back into his office and ushered the three of us out, but I stayed behind for a minute.

"Greg," I said, shutting the door behind the two men who'd left. "I'm sorry... what I said the other day... it was completely uncalled for."

He huffed and avoided my eyes for a minute before replying, "No, I needed to hear it. I love her, I just don't know how to stop messing up."

"Well, you can start by not 'staying late at the office.'" I could tell by his expression that I was again pushing things too far. "Sorry," I mumbled.

He nodded and looked down at some paperwork on his desk. I started to leave, but stopped myself halfway through the door. "You're a good man, Lestrade. And even good men make mistakes."

He smiled at the reference as I left.


	6. Chapter 6

Elia gets herself into a _sticky _situation. Rated M for a reason! Hope you enjoy:)

* * *

The setting was perfect. The holidays were giving everyone a warm feeling, even to Sherlock, who was usually Scrooge. My Gran went to visit her niece in Cardiff for the weekend, leaving me alone in our flat to devise a plan that would rotate around a serial killer who had a... unique... way of killing his victims. A unique way that would get Sherlock and John to talk about their feelings toward each other.

I knew I shouldn't have been meddling in something that wasn't my business, but I couldn't just sit around and let my colleagues and friends look lustfully at each other every time the other looked away. It was killing them that they were so close in proximity, but so far away emotionally. And I felt the need to do something about it.

"I've never seen anything like it," Lestrade said, showing us the crime scene. "The two just... fucked each other to death."

"Well, that gives a new meaning to 'don't stop til you drop,'" I joked.

No one laughed, but I did attract about a dozen eyes throughout the room.

Sherlock began his observation of the bodies. The two were still intertwined with each other, the man slumped over the woman. The blankets were pushed down, probably by the couple who couldn't control their hormones, showing exactly what had happened. The bed was covered in semen, as if someone had taken a bucket and poured it over them. No one could have naturally ejected that much in a short amount of time, or had the stamina to do so in the time it would have required.

"Any signs of injection?" I asked after he seemed to have thoroughly examined them both.

"Not by needle. Nothing seems to have been forced in these two-" I snickered. Everyone glared again. These Brits seriously need to get a sense of humor. "Molly will need to do an autopsy to check for chemicals in their blood."

He exited the room without another word. Something was off about him; he usually could pick out every off detail in the room in one glance, but he missed a lot. Like how the couple had left their delivered food on the table after only getting halfway through it. I informed Lestrade about this finding and he told a really douche-y agent named Anderson to check into it.

I saw nothing more I could do at the moment to discreetly bring Sherlock and John together, so I took a taxi to the morgue. I was interested to see what could have caused this strange event and I liked Molly, despite her painfully obvious crush on Sherlock. She had a clever mind and was very good in finding unnatural chemicals through one's body. We both shared an awkward disposition toward other people, which lessened the need for unnecessary speaking.

I was searching on my laptop for chemicals that could be related to increasing sexual hormones, although I was sure Molly knew all of them. Some drug that I couldn't pronounce to save my life appeared to be a likely candidate. All it took was a single drop of the condensed substance to increase sexual hormones by at least 12% in both males and females. And adding an entire teaspoon of that substance wouldn't have been difficult to add into a food source.

"Molly," I said, still researching the substance, "Adding, let's say, a single drop of this drug into someone's drink wouldn't be harmful, would it?"

She eyed me suspiciously. "I suppose not."

"And let's say I was trying to hook two of my friends up, would that-"

"No," she stopped me, laughing. "This drug is illegal in the UK, for obvious reasons. Your best bet would be to ground up a more legal hormone-increasing drug and give it to them. This is all hypothetical, isn't it?"

"Of course." I smiled to reassure her.

It wasn't.

"Face it, Sherlock. You're not going to be able to solve this case by the sheer fact that you have no knowledge on sex. Just let the police take care of it!" I told him when I was back at the flat.

John had gone out to get milk.

"My knowledge of sexual intercourse is quite vast," he retorted.

I sighed and pushed my hands through my hair. This was like trying to explain to a five year old where babies come from. "You know the basics, but you can't truly understand without experience. You know my deducing skills are good enough for me to figure out that you're a virgin. You won't let yourself get close enough to anyone to understand how it feels to be that intimate with someone, even though there is a person willing to help you. And that, Sherlock Holmes, is your greatest downfall."

Heavy, soldier-like footsteps coming up the stairs warned us that John was on his way up. As he came walking into the room, I began to exit.

"I'm going to bed," I said, more to John.

He seemed confused. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

(I still slept in his room or the couch most of the time)

"I'll lock the doors and shut the blinds," I said. "Don't worry about me."

I don't know exactly how I got into the mess I did. Okay, I do. I went up to their flat to try and sneak some sexual hormone-increasing drugs into the milk, which I knew they would both drink. I wasn't expecting what came next.

Sherlock was too focused on his research that he hadn't noticed my entering the room. I watched him for a couple of minutes, as I sometimes did. But this time, it was different. He seemed to get more lost in his thoughts than usual until I barely noticed an erection growing under his robe.

"John!" he shouted.

My eyes shot open and I instinctively ducked behind the counter that separated the kitchen from the rest of the flat.

John opened his door and let out a sleepy sigh. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Come here. I need to test a theory..."

He shuffled across the room to Sherlock. My curiosity getting the best of me, I peeked just above the counter, partially hidden behind the biscuit jar. Sherlock's eyes roamed John's topless chest, the muscles from his time serving in the army still visible. The doctor stood still until Sherlock's hand groped his crotch.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! What are you doing?!" John shouted, jumping out of Sherlock's reach.

"I told you," he replied innocently. "I'm testing a theory."

"And what exactly would this theory be?"

"That sexual intercourse may be enjoyable if the parties involved care about each other."

I nearly smacked my mouth to keep from laughing. I don't know how they didn't notice me.

"Sherlock..." John rubbed his eyes. "We haven't even discussed this. You can't just jump into this kind of thing."

"Okay," Sherlock said, as if accepting defeat. The doctor turned around and started walking away. That is, until a hand grabbed his own and stopped him.

"I want you, John. In every way. I've never felt sexually attracted to anyone before I met you. I'm still not sold on this whole intercourse deal, but I want to try if it's with you."

John didn't face him. "What would people say?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Wow, what's John doing with that freak? But they already say that, don't they?"

John sighed. Sherlock whispered, "please" in his ear with that deep, erotic voice he has. It nearly turned me on, but was apparently enough to do the job for John by the growing bulge in his pants. He turned around and practically forced himself on Sherlock. Their lips pressed together, Sherlock frozen and frigid before melting into John's strong hold.

I should have announced myself. I should have at least stopped watching, but I couldn't get myself to look away as the most passionate display of sex unfolded before me.

John's hands roamed Sherlock's thin body, paying attention to the most sensitive parts. Sherlock moaned when John's hand ran up his thigh and untied his robe. The blue silk fell to the floor, quickly followed by a shirt. Sherlock took control and was running his hands through John's hair as he hungrily pulled him closer.

"I've wanted you," John panted, "for so long."

Move to a room. Move to a room. Move to a room. I begged silently.

Instead, Sherlock replied, "I'm yours, John. Don't wait any longer."

And with that last remark, the rest of their clothes were gone. Sherlock was thinner than I imagined he would be(not that I'd imagined him naked... often), but had surprisingly nice muscle definition. His hip bones peeked out just as dangerously sharp as his cheekbones.

John was also different than I'd expected, with his military-toned body. He'd spent so much time hiding under his jumpers that I'd never really had a chance to see him fully exposed. The scar on his shoulder from being shot in battle showed visibly, which Sherlock saw as an opportunity to kiss it gingerly.

They moved in unison, albeit awkwardly, to the couch, where John positioned himself above Sherlock. The latter's legs draped openly along the back and side of the couch, eagerly awaiting John to enter him. But the army man knew patience and was about to give Sherlock a lesson in it.

"John," he begged. "Please."

John's fingers gently ran along the inside of his thighs, until touching Sherlock's twitching cock. Luckily, Sherlock's moan was loud enough to cover my own. He then proceeded to stick two fingers into his mouth for a reason that I didn't quite understand until he positioned them behind Sherlock.

"Are you sure about this, Sherlock?" John asked. "There's no going back."

"Yes, John. Just... please."

I was finally able to tear my eyes away and duck behind the counter. Just in time, too. As soon as I was down, I heard Sherlock moaning loudly in what sounded like a mixture of pain and pleasure. I could tell just by the sounds that Sherlock was hissing and writhing below John. I could feel myself involuntarily getting wet.

"John- I want you."

"What was that?" John teased. "Could you repeat yourself?"

Sherlock growled. "Fuck me, John."

And that was all he had to say for John to take his fingers out of him and replace it with his erect penis. I was watching again at this point. John pushed in gently, then retracted. Sherlock's face told me that this was extremely painful, and I didn't doubt it. Moriarty had... Well...

The two were clawing at each others' skin, needing more. John tried to continue being gentle with the fragile-looking detective, but Sherlock wouldn't have it. He begged John constantly to pound him harder and faster, and John couldn't deny himself the pleasure. They were both nearly screaming when John had grabbed Sherlock's cock and they came.

John collapsed on top of Sherlock, then readjusted himself between the detective and the back of the couch. Sherlock curled up into John's chest and they laid calmly together.

"How did your theory turn out?" John asked.

"My hypothesis was correct," he stated. "That was quite a pleasurable experience."

It didn't take long for the two to fall asleep in each others' arms. I gave it twenty minutes before quietly creeping toward the door. I thought I'd make it out of this cluster fuck unnoticed, until I heard someone say my name just as I reached the door.

"Elia," Sherlock said.

My eyes shot open in shock. I was honestly debating making a run for it and denying I was ever in the flat, but I forced myself to face him. John was asleep beside him, a blanket covering his lower half. Sherlock was still laying too, although his head was sticking up to look at me.

Instead of saying any of the hundred things I thought he would, Sherlock just said, "Thank you."

I nodded, my face getting redder every second. I immediately snuck out of the door without waking John, and I prayed Sherlock wouldn't tell him. The stairs seemed louder than ever as I crept down them.

At the bottom of the stairs, next to the door, sat a box. It wasn't just a regular box either, as it was dressed in a bow and, realising after picking it up, unaddressed. Against my better judgement, I removed the bow and cut the tape with my thumb nail. What I found inside would have made me gasp, if I hadn't been so shocked.

I dropped the box out of my shaking hand and held what it contained: a Barbie doll that appeared to have been dropped in the dirt and splattered with what was either red paint or actual blood(though deep down I knew it was likely the latter). I turned the doll over and painted on its back was a single word.

**_SHERLOCK_**


	7. Chapter 7

**I'm so sorry for the delay, everyone:( I've been in a crippling writers block the past few months, and this is the best I could get out. I hope you enjoy, though. There are more twists to come!**

* * *

"Can't I just-"

"No."

"But it's right next door!"

"I said no!."

I shoved the chair in, nearly toppling it over as I stormed out of the kitchen into my own room. I slammed the door shut and proceeded to slump onto my bed, cover my face with my pillow, and scream as loud as I possibly could. This wasn't the most intelligent idea, I discovered, when two sets of footsteps came running down the stairs and into the flat.

"What happened?" I heard Sherlock ask.

"Is Elia okay?" John followed.

Gran's soft voice followed. "She's fine. Just frustrated is all. She wanted to go to Speedy's for a snack-you know kids and their unhealthy eating-but it's too dangerous!"

John chuckled. "I'm sure going next door will be fine, Mrs. Hudson."

As soon as she agreed, I grabbed my wallet and stormed past the three. I refused to make eye contact, even though I could feel the three sets of eyes staring at me. I stopped for a moment as I stepped outside, the feeling of freedom sweeping over me.

_God, I'm so American_.

But had I still been in America, this situation would never have happened. I would never have been a prisoner in my own home because a psychopath was threatening me. We didn't even know if the doll was intended to be a threat toward me, or if it was simply a reminder from Moriarty what he did to me. Like any of us needed a reminder...

John had convinced Sherlock that they had to tell my grandmother what was going on-sparing the gruesome details-that there was potentially a target on my back. Needless to say, Gran didn't take it well and practically locked me away in my room. I wasn't even allowed to attend school.

I tried to forget all of that for a moment as I seated myself at an empty table near the back. I made sure to face the back wall so I wouldn't have my brain racing at a hundred miles an hour, making deductions. The cafe was nearly empty, since it was only four in the afternoon, so I didn't have to worry about privacy. I scanned the menu quickly before the waiter came up. I kept my gaze down on the menu, not feeling like making eye contact with anyone.

"Just a bacon cheeseburger and a Coke, please."

The waiter chuckled. "That's quite an appetite for someone who's been out of class sick for nearly two weeks."

My eyes shot up to finally see Elliott, one of the few guys in my class that wasn't a complete douche bag. I didn't even think he knew who I was. We'd never spoken, and it wasn't like I'd made an effort to get to know a lot of people.

"Not that kind of sickness," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

His smirk faded into a look of worry. "It's not... fatal or anything, is it?"

"No, I'm nearly better. I should be back at school soon." I smiled to reassure him and handed him my menu, hoping he'd take that as a sign that I was done talking and for him to get me my damn food.

My eyes settled back to a blank space on the wall as he walked away. I knew I should have taken advantage of the small bit of freedom I had, but the isolation had only shut me out from civilization even more. I nearly jumped when Elliott finally returned with my food.

"I've been thinking," he said, sitting down across from me. "You've missed quite a bit in class while you've been away. I could help catch you up."

He picked up one of my fries and ate it. I wasn't sure whether he was flirting with me or genuinely offering, so I didn't know how to respond. And the fact that he had a stupidly hot face did not help the situation. That was kind of my curse-I could tell if a man was cheating on his wife by his shoelaces, but I was still a clueless teenage girl when it came to boys my age.

"I, um, I probably shouldn't. My grandmother is... really protective of me."

I took a bite of the sandwich, hoping he would just let me be in peace, but his eyes remained on me as I awkwardly chewed and swallowed.

"Maybe you could stop by after closing, if it's not too late for you. I know you live right next door, so it wouldn't be-"

"How do you know that?"

He stared at me for a moment, as if it was obvious. "You're not invisible, Elia. I know you're trying to be, but it's not working."

"Speaking of working... shouldn't you be?" I snapped, more harshly than I meant to.

He sighed. "If you change your mind, we close at nine."

He took another fry off my plate and took a bite off it before leaving me with a wink. I sat there in confusion over what just happened for a minute before finally getting the chance to eat. I did so as quickly as I could, feeling Elliott's eyes on me and wanting to get away as quickly as possible, then left after paying.

Instead of going back to the flat like I knew I should have, I pulled out my pack of cigarettes and lit one after getting a safe distance down the street. I figured going a block or two down wouldn't get me into much trouble, so I strolled mindlessly for about ten minutes before finally going back.

I made my way upstairs to see John and Sherlock instead of returning to my grandmother. I paused at the door before entering, as they'd been like horny teenagers over the past couple weeks. Literally every time I tried to see them, they were on top of each other.

John still didn't know that I'd watched them during their first time, which I was extremely grateful to Sherlock for. I didn't want to suffer the embarrassment, and he probably knew as well as I did that John would panic if anyone found out he was boning the consulting detective.

Luckily, this was one of the times I didn't have to awkwardly retract and pretend I didn't know what was going on in that flat.

"Hey," I said to the two, who appeared to be going out. Going by the state of urgency they seemed to be in, along with the giddy look on Sherlock's face, Lestrade must have called. "Can I come?"

John was the first to reply.

"I think it'd be best if you stayed with your grandmother right now."

I turned to the door. "I'll get my coat, then."

"What is it? Something new, I hope," Sherlock said, strolling into Lestrade's office.

Going by the look on his face, Lestrade clearly didn't want me in the room. He was worried, and given that I've been helping on some rather gruesome cases, this clearly wasn't about a job. It was about me.

"What have you found?" I asked.

His eyes shifted between the two men. "We discovered an accomplice to Moriarty's schemes." He tossed a file on the desk, which Sherlock promptly opened. "Sebastian Moran. He was born in London to a noble family, military trained and appears to have been hired by Moriarty to do his dirty work."

"Moran," I mumbled. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Well, it's not a terribly uncommon name in Britain," Lestrade suggested.

I looked over Moran's file more closely. He'd been military trained, but appeared to have been forcibly retired, though no reason was given on the report. A respectable leave for someone with the title of colonel.

"Are you saying that we should be watching out for this man, then?" John asked.

Lestrade ran a hand through his thinning hair. "There's no evidence to suggest that he's currently after Sherlock or Elia, but keep your eyes open."

"Someone from my class offered to help me catch up on my schoolwork," I stated as we returned to the flat. "A boy."

John looked taken aback. "You're not asking for us to give you 'the talk,' are you? Because I don't think we're exactly qualified for that..."

"No!" I laughed.

"I just mean, I don't know if I can trust him."

"You should go," Sherlock said with his eyes still gazing through his microscope. "Given that he was the one asking you out, I'd say he likes you back."

"That's not what I was-"

He stopped me with a harsh look for questioning his deduction skills. Of course he would know that, but not when the man he's living with was in love with him. I huffed and laid down on the couch. Was I strong enough to face this situation after everything I'd been through with Moriarty? What if he tried to make a move on me and I freaked out?

I cursed the stupid, teenager part of me and turned back to Sherlock, who appeared to be sulking. If a new case didn't turn up soon, he'd surely explode.

I peered in the window of Speedy's, seeing James wiping down tables in the dimmed lights. I was ten minutes late already, having spent that time debating whether or not I should actually go. But I'd mustered up the courage to do so, and stood outside the cafe lamely with my backpack and books in hand.

He spotted me from the corner of his eyes just as I raised my hand to knock, so I waved at him. He flashed that mocking grin and moved to let me inside.

"I was worried you wouldn't come," he said as I stepped in.

Worried? Why was he worried?

"Yeah, well, I'm not that great in pre-calc, so I figured I could use the help."

He smiled again and led me to the table I sat in earlier. I threw my backpack in the booth and set my books on the table, wondering if we'd even use them or not. I watched awkwardly as he removed his apron from working and also threw it into the booth.

He sat opposite me and grabbed my Precalculus book, opening to a page in the middle. "We started working on quadratic functions about the time you left. It'll be a bitch for you to learn them out of class, but it's not like Mr. Harris did a great job teaching us anyways."

We sat there for a while, James explaining a bunch of mathematical things I didn't understand and likely never would. I would never have taken him for someone who was this good at math, but I guess you can't deduce everything about a person. From what I had deduced, he seemed to be a boy from a low-income family, therefore needing to work long hours, from the looks of his eyes. He was cocky when around other people, but had some kind of self issue that prevented him from being himself. I didn't know why- he seemed nice enough.

After about an hour, James pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. "Do you mind?" he asked.

"Only if I can have one in repayment for my fries you stole earlier."

He smiled and rolled his eyes. "They're called 'chips' here, you know. If you don't say it correctly, I won't give you any more."

"Oh, sorry, my good sir," I said in a terrible, mocking British accent. "Would you like some tea and biscuits to go with that bullshit of yours?"

We both broke into a fit of laughter. Once we calmed down, he dispensed a cigarette to me and himself. He took a drag of his smoke and said, "Okay, Elia Hudson. What's your story? What caused you to move to England, become an outcast and befriend that crazy detective guy?"

How did he know about Sherlock? And why did everyone leave out John?

"Um..." I looked down, debating whether I should have told him the truth, eventually figuring there wasn't a lot of harm to it. "My parents died in a fire and my only relative was my Gran, so I was forced here to move with her."

My eyes flickered up to him and I could tell immediately that he felt guilty for asking.

"I'm so sorr-"

"Don't," I begged. "It's fine. As for the outcast part, I guess I've always been one. I had friends back in America, but they haven't kept in touch for the past few months, if that says anything. I'm kind of a freak. That's probably why I spend most of my time with Sherlock. Everyone thinks he's a freak too."

"Why do you think you're a freak?" he asked sincerely.

I turned around to look out the window. "Do you see that woman waiting for a cab? She had her own car, but had to sell it because she couldn't afford it after losing her job. By the way she's dressed in those designer clothes, I'd say she told her friends she totaled it to avoid the embarrassment. The man on the other side of the street that's watching her is considering talking to her, but won't because he's married and was already caught once cheating."

I turned back around to him.

He looked shocked. "Oh."

"Yeah." I pushed my cigarette in the ash tray.

"You're not a freak."

I laughed. "Thanks."

I didn't know who this Elliott boy was, or why he was helping me, but I felt as though I had finally found someone I could trust. Someone who wasn't completely mad, at least. So I went the next night, tapping on the glass and going in for talking, smoking, and studying with him.

* * *

**So who is this Elliot boy? And can Elia trust him?**

**I just realized their names match. Fuck.**


End file.
